by Jorge Franco
“We’ll use today’s date,” he says. “This is the date we saw him again, the only one we’re sure of.”
I grab his hand across the table, and that’s how the waitress finds us, like two men in love. Smiling as well, she sets down our plates. Here’s your eggs, sweetie, she says to me. And yours, she says to Julio. Don’t let the arepas get cold, they’re best hot, she tells us both, gives us a tender look, and leaves.
“This looks great,” Julio says, and tucks into his eggs with gusto.
42
With every day that went by, Libardo was even more dead. The government had no interest in finding him. They claimed to be looking for him, but in fact they’d have been thrilled to have one less drug trafficker to deal with. They condemned vigilante justice—that’s what institutions were for, they said, and we needed to trust in the authorities. They kept giving us speeches when it was clear to everybody that Libardo had disappeared—had been disappeared, as Fernanda emphasized to them, even though she knew they wouldn’t do anything to find him.
The few friends he had didn’t do anything either, apart from making some noise. His absence must have suited them too. It meant one less person sharing the pie, or the portion they had left, since the Cali capos, the Norte del Valle guys, Los Pepes, and others had steadily filled the vacuum that Escobar left in the drug trade. So the only ones who missed Libardo were us.
Our grandmother didn’t come back to the house after her confrontation with Fernanda. We used to go visit her, and she’d always insinuate that the last person who’d been with Libardo and seen him alive was Fernanda. She said it a lot, to the point that Julio had to shut her down. That’s enough, Gran, he said, Ma had nothing to do with it, she adores him, she wouldn’t have let anybody hurt him. Gran scowled, annoyed by Julio’s tone, and stared at our grandfather, who was probably off orbiting Saturn’s moons.
But the others kept calling. Not on the hour anymore but several times a day, and sometimes when they felt like it they’d ask for Fernanda. They demanded money in exchange for information, and though Benito warned her it might be a scam, Fernanda got sucked in. She was talking with a guy named Rómulo who, he claimed, was the spokesperson for the group that had Libardo. Fernanda asked for proof of life, but Rómulo put her off with excuses. He claimed they were holding him in an isolated area and that for Libardo’s safety and theirs, it was best not to take photos of the place. Fernanda tried to put up a strong front, there’s no deal without proof, she told Rómulo many times, but they wouldn’t give in.
Dengue, who was battle-hungry, urged Fernanda to negotiate. We’ll get him one of these days, ma’am, he told her, we’ve got to maintain contact with them, we can’t let them disappear, Dengue said, his hitman adrenaline pumping.
Benito brought Julio and me together and said, “You all are going to end up in the street. Talk to her. Libardo’s assets belong to you too, and those people are looking to clean you out.”
Obediently, the two of us attempted to talk with Fernanda, as if we were adults, men of the sort who could fill Libardo’s shoes, confident and aggressive. We talked, and then she said, “There’s no reason for me to be negotiating with those murderers in the first place. I would have thought Libardo was enough of a man that by now the two of you would have learned something and would know what to do in these situations. But no. So now, since I’m trying to save him, I’m the bad guy.”
“Ma.”
“Let me finish. I’ll remind you that Libardo’s blood is running through your veins too. You are Libardo. What happens to him happens to all of us.”
Just as it seemed like her lecture was hitting its stride, Fernanda let out a shriek of terror. We were sure they’d come after us and we were dead meat. But she’d cried out because a bat had flown in through the sliding doors in the living room and was circling above us, above her. She screamed every time the bat brushed against her head. Julio tossed a sofa cushion at it, but that only made it more frantic. Two of the guys burst in through the same door where the bat had come in. They had their pistols drawn, ready to let off a hail of bullets. One of them made Fernanda get down on the floor while Julio and I kept hurling cushions at the bat.
“Duck down,” one of the guys said, raising his gun.
“No,” Fernanda shrieked. “The light, the light.” She was referring to the twelve-arm crystal chandelier that hung in the middle of the room. But the bodyguard didn’t put away his gun, and in the confusion shot not the chandelier or the ceiling or even the bat, which managed to find the exit before it took a bullet, but a Botero painting, the one Libardo used to say was worth more than any of us.
Fernanda got up from the floor, furious with the bodyguards and with us. She chased them out of the house with another scream. Julio stuck two fingers in the gash that the bullet had left in the thigh of a fat woman playing cards in the buff. Holy shit, he said, and Fernanda yelled for us to get out.
That single shot gave the neighbors an excuse to complain to the authorities that there’d been a gunfight at our house. A patrol car pulled up out front, and from my room I saw the bodyguards talking with the police for a long time. Fernanda found me glued to the window when she came upstairs to have us all pray together. For a long time, ever since I found out what Libardo did, I’d believed it was presumptuous to ask God for anything. I didn’t feel deserving of his protection or his favors. And I still believed it in that moment when Fernanda took our hands, Julio’s and mine, and with her eyes closed asked for Libardo to return safe and sound as soon as possible. She asked for that every night, clinging to us, convinced that God protected capos too. In that tense atmosphere, I would burst into uncontrollable laughter every time I remembered the mayhem the bat caused.
That night, Pedro came to visit me. He was one of the few school friends who still came around. That last year was when we started calling him “the Dictator.” He was a complete tool, but he was also caring and loyal, especially with me. Probably because he’d been obsessed with money ever since he was a kid, but I didn’t care about that: there he was whenever I needed him, or surprising me with late-night visits with a bottle of liquor, though he might also just steal one from Libardo’s study so we could sit around and drink and talk.
“Did you write your will?” Pedro asked.
“Don’t joke about that.”
“Everybody’s saying you’re going to get killed.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t care anymore.”
“Leave everything to me, man,” Pedro said.
“What’s everything?”
“The Rolex, your stereo, your motorcycles . . .”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“Everybody’s getting killed, Larry.”
“Then maybe you will too.”
He took a swig from a bottle of brandy and passed it to me. We both coughed as the alcohol hit our throats.
“You’re so lucky,” he said. “Not having to go to school. That’s the life.”
“Actually, it’s hell here, Pedro.”
He shrugged, unconcerned.
“It’s hell everywhere.”
We drank again, and again coughed and shuddered at the brandy. We were quiet, staring at the bottle, until I said, “I’m going to leave you everything.”
“Really?” he asked excitedly.
I nodded, and he smiled.
“In writing?” he asked.
“In writing,” I said.
He leaped toward the desk, rummaged for some paper, and grabbed a pen. He handed them to me and started dictating:
“Medellín, April 2, 1994 . . .”
43
Libardo? Is that you, honey?” our grandmother asks.
“No, Gran, it’s Julio.”
Gran, standing in the doorway, blocks the entrance and looks at us warily. “Oh, sweetie, you scared me,” she says. “Come in, come in. Why are you here
so early?”
“Early?” Julio looks at his watch and kisses her on the cheek. “It’s ten, Gran.”
Our grandmother holds out her hand to me and says, good morning, young man, come in. Julio stops. Don’t you recognize him, Gran?, he asks. She looks me up and down and says to Julio, you never come by, especially not with friends. I’m Larry, Gran, I say. She goes pale. It’s Larry, Gran, Julio says, and she brings one hand to her heart and the other to her mouth. Oh, honey, she asks me, what are you doing here, what happened, what are you two not telling me? The house smells of damp, of confinement, of old age. It’s the house they moved to after the Libardo situation, but inside it’s the same as ever, frozen in time.
“Dear God,” our grandmother says. “Come in, come in. Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes, Gran, thank you.”
“What’s going on? Why are you here, Larry? Are you back for good?”
“No, Gran, I just came because of Dad.”
“Dear God.”
The curtains are the same, heavier now with accumulated dust. The furniture is the same Louis XV stuff that Gran always used to impress visitors. They’re French, supposedly from that Louis fellow, she’d say, the real deal. The only new thing I spot is the shrine, which may not actually be so new, but I’ve never seen it before. In a gold-framed photo is Libardo, smiling and lit by church candles, perfumed with white flowers. I get goosebumps, and my breakfast stops short on its journey through my guts.
“Oh, honey, what a tragedy,” Gran says, grabbing my hands. Her eyes well up and her voice is nasal and sad.
“Yes, Gran,” I say, “but at least now . . .”
Now he’s dead? Or now we know he’s dead? What can I say to her that won’t bring her more torment? What can I tell myself to assuage my guilt over the peace it’s brought me? She must have hoped for another outcome, that after a dozen years we’d be informed that Libardo was alive, that he’d survived Los Pepes’ attacks and been hiding out all this time, and that she wasn’t confused and in fact it was Libardo, and not Julio, who’d appeared a few moments earlier at her door.
“What’s wrong, Larry?” Gran asks, and says to Julio, “Sit him down over there, Julito, before he falls over.” She points to an armchair and asks again, “Are you sure you’ve eaten? I bought pastries yesterday.”
I just need air, that’s all. There’s not a single window open. The candles and flowers smell like death.
“I’ll bring you some blackberry juice,” Gran says, and then complains to Julio, “You didn’t bring me any guavas or cheese from the farm, honey.” She frowns and says, “Or won’t your mother let you bring me anything?”
“No, Gran,” Julio says. “It’s been a hard summer.”
She makes a face like she doesn’t believe him and heads for the kitchen.
I ask Julio where our grandfather is, and he shrugs. She doesn’t like for him to come out, he says. I want to say hi, I say. He’s not going to recognize you, Julio says. How long has it been since she set this up?, I ask, nodding toward the shrine. Years, Julio says. I’ve never seen that photo before, I say. I hadn’t either, he says, she gave it to me so I could get it blown up, it’s a photo of a photo. I’m going to open a window, I tell Julio, and I go over to the sliding glass doors that lead out to the balcony. Behind the drapes is a sheer that used to be white. The door is locked, the balcony crammed with flowerpots of parched plants. Gran appears with a tray loaded with a plate of cookies and two glasses of blackberry juice.
“All right, boys,” she says. “Here you go.” She stares at Julio and asks, “What have you got there, honey? Set that bag down and have some juice.”
Julio looks over at me. The question in his eyes is, do I tell Gran we’ve got her son here? My response is a look that says nothing. She sets the glasses and plate on the coffee table. Her hand shakes as she deposits each thing, but she makes sure it’s all arranged neatly. I take the plunge and say, “I’m hot, Gran, could we open the window?”
“Oh, I don’t know where I put the darn key. I haven’t even been able to water the plants, so they’re dying on me.” She thinks a moment and then adds, “I think that old coot lost it.”
The old coot is our grandfather.
“No worries, Gran.”
“I’ll open the dining room window, but drink your juice. It’s cold—it’ll be refreshing.” To Julio she says, “Put down that bag, honey, and come over here.”
“Gran,” Julio says, and looks at me.
Now I’m the one who’s shaking. I grab the glass and sip the juice, just to have something to do.
Julio continues: “This is Dad.” He raises the bag a little. Gran doesn’t understand and stares at him, puzzled.
“This is your son,” Julio says.
It sounds pathetic; it sounds biblical, absurd, awkward. Julio holds out the red bag and she asks, “Where? Where is he?”
“Here.”
“There?”
When they told her Libardo’s remains had been found, she’d pushed back right from the start. How do I know it’s him? They’ve analyzed the data. What data?, she asked. The DNA. What’s that? It’s like a kind of ID that all human beings have in their bodies. Where do we have it?, she’d asked. In the body—skin, hair, bones. Well, to be sure it’s him, I need to see him. But maybe there isn’t anything, Julio tried to explain, we have to trust the DNA, I gave them a sample of mine so they could do the analysis in case he was ever found. Oh, sweetie, don’t confuse me with that stuff, Gran said, bewildered, and added, if I can just see him, I’ll know if it’s him, after all he’s my son.
“Here he is, Gran,” Julio says, and holds out the bag as if he were giving her a present.
Our grandmother wobbles; she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, whether to bring them to her mouth, or press them to her chest, or fan herself with them, or wipe away her tears, or use them to prop herself up so she doesn’t collapse on the floor. She goes quiet, her own words stifling her. Julio takes a step toward her and she steps back.
“Are you O.K., Gran?”
She shakes her head and points to the red bag. She tries to speak, Li, Li, Li. I hold her up and try to lead her to a chair. Suddenly, from somewhere, a voice booms out, saying, where’s Carmenza the Dense-a? Where’s Carmenza the Dense-a?
“Where is he?” Julio asks.
“In the kitchen,” Gran says.
Julio starts to go off to look for him, but I gesture to him to let me go instead. And there I find him. He’s in pajamas, and his hair is a mess, as if he’s just gotten out of bed. He slaps the table in the breakfast nook and chants, where’s Carmenza the Dense-a?, but as soon as he sees me he goes quiet, watching me with his yellow eyes. He blinks with difficulty because of the pterygia growing over his corneas, which have left him almost blind. Nevertheless he smiles at me.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I say.
He laughs. He doesn’t have a single tooth. Maybe he never did. I mean, maybe he was using dentures before and now he doesn’t bother. He’s drooling. There are stains of dripped food on his pajama top. He stops laughing, but he keeps studying me up and down.
“I’m Larry, Grandpa.”
He raises his eyebrows, opens his mouth a little, and burps. He utters something that sounds like my name. In some corner of his memory, my face or my voice must have set something off that tells him, it’s Larry, Libardo’s kid.
“I arrived yesterday from London,” I tell him.
Grandpa slowly lifts his arm and points to the cupboards. I don’t see anything worth notice, just jars, battered cookpots, a pile of dirty dishes, a basket full of blackened bananas.
“Do you need something?” I ask.
The nail on his finger is long and untrimmed. His hand trembles, and his voice isn’t able to pull together what he wants to tell me. The glibness with which he’d been taunting my grandmoth
er is gone. Now he looks like a spoiled child who’s trying to get attention by using baby talk.
“What do you want, Grandpa?”
He’s not even trying to talk now. He looks like a tragedy mask; he groans, still pointing, looking back and forth between me and the cupboards.
“Do you want something to eat?”
His groan sounds like a complaint. His old finger looks like the one God points when issuing punishment. His eyes glare at me as if in warning. I go over to the cabinets next to the stove and ask, “Here?”
Grandpa shakes his head. I point to the lower cabinets and he again says no. He tries to lift his arm a little higher, and I point to the upper cabinet. He nods. I open the doors and find only old glass and metal containers full of unidentifiable substances, full of food and time.
“In the back,” he says, quite clearly, with perfect pronunciation.
I push the jars aside to look in the back and there, in the shadows, I see an old revolver that doesn’t even have a cylinder. I look at my grandfather, and he looks back at me with his eyes very wide open, translucent and full of fear.
“Whose is it?” I ask, and close the cupboard.
My grandfather looks toward the living room, where Julio and my grandmother are murmuring over a bag of bones.
“She’s going to kill me,” he says quietly.
Now he uses his finger to signal me not to say anything. Or maybe, from having lived with her so long, he knows what’s going to happen, that she, her curiosity piqued by our silence, will come in right at that moment, as she in fact does, and asks, “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, Gran. Just saying hi to Grandpa.”
“Did he recognize you?” she asks, not caring that he’s right there.
“Of course, Gran.”
“See?” she says. “He’s faking it to manipulate us.” Her tone changes and she pleads, “Larry, come tell your brother to leave your dad here. He’s insisting on taking him to that woman.”
